WITH THE WIND IN OUR FACE
by Turretwithaview
Summary: I would like you to join me on this trip of mystery and survival ... if I get beyond taking the first step ... and you are willing to risk it
1. Chapter 1

**WITH THE WIND IN OUR FACE - Chapter 1**

_When the flames die out and the wreck is shown to contain one decapitated body, burnt beyond recognition, they are given the hope and the belief they need, that Castle is still alive._

_When, two days later, Beckett's car launches itself over the crash barrier on FDR and disappears into the murky currents of the Hudson, only to be hauled out with smashed windscreen, open doors and no body inside, hope and belief become dread and doubts. _

_The FBI send in a special team, the NYPD sets up a special task force, the press launches special editions and has a field day which lasts for most the week. Every lead, reliable or not, every clue, forensic or witness-based is chased down, followed through twisting and turning labyrinths of truths, half-truths and outright lies. _

_Three month in, the Head Investigator closes the cover on the file, scrawls his signature across the bottom and hands it to his assistant. From the glass enclosed bullpen and precinct passageways, cops in and out of uniform look on in silence, a number of them turning away in disgust and looking at their Captain who stands within her office doorway, arms crossed, face rigid. _

_Two days later, only a small group remain, volunteers willing to forgo days off, time off and anything else required, in order to find the answers. Anger gives way to despair, despair to frustration, frustration to apathy. _

* * *

He scratches his beard, trying to remember the feel of a clean shave, even what a hot shower felt like. He turns his mind to the matter, remembering the brown tiled room, the rush of water, the heat rising from his body, the feel of her against him, the scent of her hair … with a growl of anger he shakes his head, clears the thoughts which he knows will only hurt even more, refocuses on the present.

He shifts his legs, hears the rattling of the chains, feels the weights of the shackles around his ankles. There's the usual scurrying in the corner, beady red eyes looking his way and he yells at them, picks up and throws the tin bowl in the direction of the squeaking chatter, hears the metallic rattle and scuffling of feet as the bowl bounces off the wall and rolls along the floor before coming to a rest. Instinctively he rubs the edge of his hand, feels the scar where sharp teeth tore into soft flesh

Momentary silence as all sit petrified, then the surreptitious scuffling begins again. He turns his head, eyes accustomed to the gloom, sees the pale reflection of light bouncing off the uneven stonework. He smiles grimly to himself, light? Who's he kidding, it's as dark as the Earl of Hell's waist coat in here. Whatever light penetrates his abode is nothing more than a faint distilling of shapes and forms.

He strains his hearing, listens for the far-off rattle of keys and locks that would indicate the start of another day. Day, night, what difference does it make? He has no clue as to the passage of time, only the rattling of keys, the emptying of the bucket, the carefully held tin mug with the so precious water, the dented bowl of some unimaginative and unappealing hash marking the passage of time.

He no longer smells the stench of his own waste, the damp, musty odour of his cell, his brain has long since learnt to ignore these, to assimilate them as the norm, like his own body, staleness and sweat and matted hair hardly a concern any more.

He feels the bite and flinches, dives his hand inside the remnants of his shirt, feels the slight slithering body between his fingertips, squeezes and feels the bursting sliminess and then he's placing it in his mouth, tastes the saltiness of his own blood, the sharper taste of its epidermis.

He rises to his feet, not as easy as it used to be he thinks, uses the wall to support himself, the stones damp to his touch, the scurrying in momentary abeyance, red eyes glaring in his direction. He begins his morning routine, first the careful stretching, the repetition making his joints more fluid, his ligaments stretching to the pull. Then he begins the second part of his routine, the slow sit-ups, the sequence of press-ups and knee bends. He laughs mentally at the films showing depraved prisoners with bulky muscles and executing never-ending exercises, he must be down to about half his bulk by now, ribs noticeable to his probing fingers, thighs easily encircled with both hands. He needs to be careful, not use up too many calories, not overdo his exercises and have another fainting fit, the last had led to a painful lump on his head where he'd crashed onto the stone floor … coming to, to the sensation of scurrying feet over his head and body, the sharp pain of razor like teeth finding soft flesh.

His thoughts are interrupted by the distant metallic sound and he pauses in his final set of push ups, hold his body on trembling arms a few seconds more, then lowers himself to the ground, allows his breathing to come down from gasps to nothing more than laboured breaths, pushes himself over onto his back, rolls against the wall and uses it to help him make his feet.

The routine is well established by now. He stands still, waits, eyes closed, for the glare of the flashlight searing though his eyelids, squeezes them closed in a futile attempt to spare himself the pain. The first few times he'd raised his hands, used them to shield his eyes ... the cane had almost broken his fingers, he'd soon decided that functional hands were more important than temporary inconvenience. Eventually the glare leaves his lids, their pinkish translucency fading to purple opacity. Slowly he blinks them open, his night sight lost, the cell pitch black except for the cone of light aimed at the bucket in the corner. He steps over to it, feet scratching for purchase on the floor, balance not quite there with the loss of vision. He bends down, picks up the bucket, faeces sloping around in the liquid … not much of either given the meagre diet. The cone of light flickers a few feet to the left, highlights the fresh bucket sitting just outside the bars. He takes a step back, waits for the gate to swing open, takes the two steps needed to reach it and deposits his bucket next to the other.

Picking up the fresh bucket he extremes his care, careful not to unbalance the contents, cautiously placing them near the wall, away from an accidental kick. The cone of light shift around the cell, passes and then sweeps back to highlight the tin bowl lying on the floor. He bends down, retrieves it and watches as the light sweeps back and finds the slight recess in the wall. He steps over, his shadow casting ogre-like shapes, expanding his size, creating a monster. He checks the contents of the tin mug, aware that it has long been sucked and licked dry, the hope always there however.

He places the mug inside the bowl, follows the cone of light to the gate, sets them on the floor next to the waste bucket, takes two steps back and presses his back to the wall. He squeezes his eyes closed, anticipating the flare of light. It doesn't come, today it seems there's a need for haste … or at least time is not to be wasted.

The gate clangs shut, tumblers fall into place with the scratching of the key, bucket, bowl and mug are momentarily lit up by the cone from the flashlight before being plunged back into darkness. The padding of footsteps fades away, the metallic echoes bring his day's entertainment to a close.

Carefully he slides down the wall into a seated position, he waits, waits for his sight to readjust once more to his world of darkness, waits, careful not to straighten his legs, not to accidentally kick the bucket which is somewhere off to his right. He waits, listens to the scratching of feet, ready to intervene should they approach his bucket … listens … waits.

He doesn't know how long he waits, twice he's had to kick out, twice he's intercepted their approach. Now his eyes are able to make out some details, the slightly paler darkness of the passageway which must receive some faint source of light. The wall before him has taken on some substance, not yet the glow and shadow of individual stones, more the general presence of mass. Red beads are over by the gate, trying to make their way round, out of reach of his legs.

He turns his head, stares into stygian gloom and then he can begin to make out the shape of the bucket, maybe an arm's length away. He waits, thinks he can just make out the slightly paler shape of the mug sitting inside the bucket. Still he waits, licking his lips and imagining, remembering the taste of water running down his throat.

Eventually he moves, rises carefully to his feet, crouches slowly by the bucket, careful to leave sufficient space between them. He lowers his hand, just the one, tries to settle the slight shaking which threatens to set in. His fingers grasp the edge, almost lose their grip as he shift his footing slightly, he stops breathing, waits, carefully adjusts his grip and then raises the mug. Carefully he moves the mug to his mouth, feels the edge with his lips, slowly allows them to curl over the edge, lips with a life of their own he thinks, tastes the metal of the cup, taste the freshness of the water slowly trembling just below the mug's rim, savours the first sip, tilts the mug carefully to increase the flow, enough! Not too much. He swallows, feels the glorious sensation of it sliding down his throat, the wetness, the coolness.

He's careful now as he stands, turns and takes a step towards the recess. Using one hand as a guide, the other to hold the mug, he sets it in the recess, makes sure it doesn't rock, pushes it slightly till it sits square within the flattened area. Here there's no risk of accidentally kicking it over like he'd done the first few days. Here it was safe, safe for him, safe from him.

He returns to the bucket, kicks out at the shape which was edging closer along the line of floor and wall, hears the squeal followed by the scurrying away into the darkness. He leans down, lifts out the tin dish and moves away to his favourite bit of wall, the one without the awkward ridges and protrusions that bite into his back. He sniffs the contents, shrugs, unable any longer to make out the individual smells, now it all smells and tastes pretty much the same, like a mix of porridge and cabbage.

He puts the bowl to his lips, tilts it slightly and uses his finger to push some of the mix into his mouth. He's careful, chews every mouthful twenty times, or at least tries to, sometimes he only makes it to fourteen, sometimes sixteen … then it's gone and he has to start on the next one.

His stomach growls, wanting more, needing more, but he's careful, taking his time, making it last, this is all he has till tomorrow. He pushes the last bit into his mouth, swallows after only managing seven chews, then holds the dish up to his face, licks the edge, then slowly works his tongue inwards, licking every inch of the surface, making sure not one grain of hash is left. He chuckles to himself, a somewhat dry chuckle he has to admit, he wonders if he'll die from metal poisoning with all this licking.

He puts the dish down next to his knee, within easy reach if he should need it. He settles back against the wall, raises his knees and rests his arms on them. Closes his eyes and lets his mind wonder … to silver, sparkling in the blue of the sky, a glint of metal laying vapour trails across the azure backdrop … to the leafy trees and bright green grass … to a gentle breeze sweeping, hesitating, then rustling once more, carrying with it the faint taste of saltiness and scent of sea.

* * *

_**AN: I know, I should never start another story when I've already got so many on the run! But this one's been hanging around the breezy backrooms of my mind and I needed to get it down. How far I'll go with it? ... I don't know, but it will need to be finished before September brings us the real answers if at all. I am also thinking of making this a work of two, so if someone out there would like to have a go at co-writing this, you are more than welcome to get in touch with me.**_

_**Apart from that, as usual I'm interested in finding out what you make of this. Cheers!**_


	2. Chapter 2

**WITH THE WIND IN OUR FACE – Chapter 2**

_Thanks to the following for their reviews: Caskettlover always41319, Cymru64, TORONTOSUN_

* * *

Today, if it is today, he feels lethargic, it's an effort to stir himself. His body has long lost its biometric clock, days and nights no longer have substance, the steady measure of time lost to the perpetual gloom and daily routine, only the latter helps to keeps him grounded, though he's fully aware that they could be tampering with his psyche, disturbing the patterns of his 'days'. The technique is nothing new, sensory deprivation with daily routines being carried out every few hours rather than each day, drug-laced food to make him sleep, stimulants to wake him up, three days could be made to feel like three weeks … except for his matted hair, his shrinking body weight, the ache in his bones … no, he doesn't think there's much manipulation of time going on here.

He makes an effort, both mental and physical to move, pushes himself up into a seated position, rest himself against the stones at his back, shivers as the cold seeps through his tattered shirt. He turns his mind with an effort to the temperature. It rarely varies, never too cold, never warm or even hot. There's no sound of pumps, no whine of machinery or rumble of generators. Day in, day out, it's silence. Silence briefly broken by creaking metal, jumbling keys and flashing torches, silence accentuated by the constant chit-chat and scratching of his watchers, their beady eyes and sleek bodies continuously making incursions into his perimeter, like wolves testing their prey's conditions, waiting for the moment when he will be too weak to fight back, too far gone to retreat into a corner and …

He shakes his head, berates himself for letting his mind run away with him and pushes himself up till he's standing. He's concluded long ago … or what feels like long ago … that he's underground. Not too deep, it's not cold enough for that, but far enough down to make the outside temperatures irrelevant. He bends his mind, not for the first time, to the problem. He doesn't know anything about his guard … or is it guards? They never talk, never show themselves. At first he'd tried talking to them, asking the obvious and then cursing them in anger before finally giving in to the pleading, anything just to hear another voice but his own. Silence had been the only response.

The flashlight blinds him, makes them nothing more than dark blurs against a dark background. He can't tell if they're short or tall, heavy or thin, male or female. Only his heightened sense of hearing gives him slight clues, unless they are being even cleverer and playing him, he muses. The footsteps as they approach and leave are his only clues, barely that, given that they must be wearing soft soles, sneakers or something like that; no hard, resounding footsteps, only the quiet pad of rubber on hard stone. But he has detected small differences, the slightly quicker padding of one of them, the slower cadence of the other … a question of strides? Of character? Is one shorter, needing to take more steps to reach the end of the passage, or simply more impatient, taking shorter, quicker steps?

Yesterday had been shorty … he smiles to himself as he applies the name. Shorty had seemed to be more impatient than usual, throwing the light around the cell yet failing to blind him towards the end. A ploy? An error? Carelessness? He's been through the stages; the panic, the anger, the denial, the acceptance ... they've deprived his senses, weakened his body, but his mind is still strong, has always been his strongpoint, despite his wild imagination. Given time, he's always been able to bend his intellect to the solving of the puzzle, the mystery, the enigma.

Again he smiles, he likes his words; they keep him sane. He begins his ritual, the slow stretching, moves onto the sit-ups, then the press-ups. He cheats a little today, doesn't complete the full number, he's not really up to it today. He completes the knee bends and let's himself drop to a seated position, waits for his breathing to calm down, licks his lips and feels their parchedness.

With his pulse rate almost normal he climbs back up onto his feet and moves over to the recess, carefully feels for the mug and raises it to his lips. There's barely enough to wet them, not enough to sooth the dry throat where rasping breaths have dried whatever moisture there was. He holds the metal to his throat, feels the coolness soothe him, hardly the best solution, but better than nothing.

Time passes and for the hundredth or thousandth … maybe the millionth time he tries to think of options, of possible outs. They allow him nothing useful, no cutlery, no glass, nothing that can be used to cut or dig or break. The first few weeks he had studied his cell in detail, run his fingers along every crack, every seam. Pulled and tugged and kicked at bars, let his fingers explore every centimetre of hinges and fixings, searching for and failing to discover any weakness, any possible chance of bending or snapping or pushing something lose. Nothing.

Then he had tried using the tin bowl, bending it and stamping on it till it had formed as sharp a point as he could make, had tried to dig around the stonework where metal bars were set, had tried the floor, even where they disappeared into the top of the wall. All he had managed was to blunt and wear the tin down … and to find himself without food and water the following day, for though he'd tried to straighten the dish out as much as possible, its contorted shape and scratched and damaged edge had led to punishment, silent, effective punishment. He hadn't tried anything as stupid since.

Time passes, too much, or so he thinks. Are they not coming today? Has he woken earlier than normal? Panic rises at the thought of being abandoned to his fate, no more water, no more food … no more contact with another human being.

He presses the palms of his hands to his forehead, presses as hard as he can till he feels the pain, pushes down the panic, forces himself to take slow, deep breaths. What would be the point of letting him die in isolation now? Why have they kept him alive so far, there has to be a reason, however crazy, however skewed?

The sound of the door opening in the distance, the sense of relief overwhelming, almost bringing tears of relief to his eyes, but he blinks them back, even they are too much loss of moisture … not to mention a show of weakness. The padding of feet … shorty again and he's already on his feet, back to the wall head bowed and eyelids tightly clamped closed, a shake of his head to clear his mind, the feel of hair on his face as the unruly matted strands fall forward.

The footsteps come to a stop, the light flares, hits his face, remains there a few seconds and then turns to highlight the bucket. He waits a moment, surprised. His eyes hurt, the sudden glare piercing through his eyelids though, not as painfully as usual. He slowly opens them, stares into the gloom, night vision mostly lost, but he can make out the vague shape against the dark wall behind, there's an impatient twitch of the flashlight and he moves, unwilling to tempt fate, puzzled, his mind catching onto this change and tucking it away for later analysis. Right now though, he needs to move, to carry out the usual routine.

The gate clangs shut and the soft padding footsteps move away, pause a moment as the grating metal sound travels down the passageway, quiet, then the distant thunk of finality.

He slides down the wall, stares at the bars before him, can make out the vertical and horizontal lines that cut the further wall into pale grey rectangles. He turns his head, glances at the bucket by the wall, puzzled, able to discern the shape, not perfectly, but better that usual at this stage of proceedings.

What has changed? Why isn't he as blinded as usual? His body demands liquid, begs for food, but sudden hope is stronger, more insistent. Weaker flashlight? Maybe the batteries were running low … would it have been noticeable to Shorty? Would tomorrow bring an even weaker light? Or would they be replaced, the light strong as ever?

He pushes his hair off his face, suddenly stops, lets it fall back, fingers it, greasy and gritty and dirty, clumps of it sticking together and almost reaching his cheeks. He sits still for several minutes, glances at the bucket which even now is visible, eyesight almost back to normal in this world of his. He shifts sideways, carefully removes the mug and lets the first fresh trickle of water run into his mouth, swirls it around, feels his pulse picking up as he allows it to slide down his throat. He takes a second sip, holds it for longer this time before swallowing it.

As always, with utmost care, he places his cup in the recess … 'the alter' as he thinks of it, an offering to life … his life. Sinking back down to the ground he lifts the bowl of gruel out of the bucket, lifts it to his chin and pauses. He lowers the dish to his lap, lets his fingers explore the contents, squeezes it between his fingers, feels the stickiness, stirs it some more. He leans back against the wall, stomach growling at the proximity of satisfaction, and he grimaces as he thinks of it as an unsatisfied predator being held back from the prey.

Licking his fingers clean, he reaches over and pulls the bucket to him, runs his hand inside, feels the rough plastic under his fingers … it feels damp, barely. Probably emptied and hosed out each morning, then left till the following one, to be handed to him with his daily ration, to be used for his needs. There's no smell of disinfectant, no smell of cleanliness, but his own standards are so far down that he doesn't care, probably wouldn't notice anyway.

Carefully he dips his fingers into the bowl, calculates by touch as best he can and returns them to the inside of the bucket, allowing the small ball of food to drop. He repeats the process a second time, then checks as best he can the small pile of gruel at the bottom of the pail. Careful to not upset the bowl still in his lap, he tips the bucket so that it rests at an angle against the wall, lining up the lip with a seam of stonework, hoping it will lock it in place. Then he returns to the contents of the bowl, and though ravenous as always, he still manages to savour each mouthful; chewing twenty times if possible before swallowing … and today it taste better than usual.


	3. Chapter 3

**WITH THE WIND IN OUR FACE – Chapter 3**

He wakes to the sensation of something on his leg, turns his head and makes out the sleek shape inching along his thigh, nose lifting and twitching as it scents something … he lashes out, a reflex sweep of his arm and kick of his leg and there's a surprised squeal and scrabbling of paws before the shape disappears into the far corner causing a collective angry chatter and movement of red eyes as they heave over one another.

He settles back down, sleep no longer with him so he closes his eyes, turns his mind to granite counters and percolating coffee, to feet padding down stairs, to gentle smiles and morning kisses, to pancakes and bacon and … he shakes his head as his stomach rumbles in protest; he can almost taste the thick, greasy bacon, and licks his lips … tastes instead the crusty saltiness of cracked lips.

With a sigh he pushes himself up into a seated position, rubs his eyes and stretches to try to ease the kinks from his body, the hard floor long ago having become just one more inconvenience to adapt to. He begins his morning routine, a bit more vigour in his body today as he goes over everything in his mind. Should he test it today, just to see if it works … leave the real attempt till tomorrow? Or might tomorrow bring other changes which might just set him back again?

He waits for his breathing to calm down after the final sequence of knee bends, feels the itch over his ribs where the rash is worse today. Ignores the discomfort, concentrates on his breathing, works out the mechanics, the angles and trajectories, runs through the steps in his mind; once, twice, three times … and then again and again. What if …? He shakes off the doubts, focuses on picturing the cell in his mind's eye, angle of aperture .. the gate swings just as far as that point, the gap is so, the bucket set just so … routine and repetition … repetition and routine; they make for perfection, the make for confidence, they make for vulnerability.

He rises to his feet, reaches up and lifts the mug down from the recess. His lips are dry, throat parched, but he ignores the small amount of water left this morning in the bottom of the tin receptacle.

He moves across to the bucket, lifts it to reveal the tin dish beneath it and sets it down a bit further away. He picks up the dish and moves back to his personal spot, settles down and carefully sets the mug within reach but out of harm's way. His finger prods the small ball of gruel he's saved from yesterday. It's hard as rock, stuck to the tin. He picks up the mug, stares at it a moment, his mind picturing the water inside slopping around, he licks his lips, gives a slight shake to his head and pours the contents into the dish. It's almost an hour before the mix is malleable enough for his needs; the gluten from whatever grain it is, making the paste stick to his fingers. Carefully he scrapes them along the edge of the dish, trying to recover every bit of gruel he can, he wonders if he saved sufficient.

Time passes, he begins to worry that it may dry out too soon, maybe he should have waited a little longer, what if they delay in coming this morning, what if … he grunts in frustration, forces himself to sit back, take long, even breaths, begins to recite Poe's The Raven …

_Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,_

_Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,_

_While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,_

_As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door._

_''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door-_

_Only this, and nothing more.'_

_Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,_

_And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor._

_Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow__ …._

The sound of scraping metal brings him to a stop, his breath suddenly short … how long? Quickly he dips his finger into the dish, feels the glutinous stickiness still pliable, though a thin crust has begun to form. He stirs it, tries to absorb the drier parts within the damper ones.

He picks up the sticky ball of gruel in one hand, places the empty dish on the floor to one side and pushes himself to his feet, leaning against the stonework and listening to the padding footfalls, its 'Shorty' once again. Has there only ever been the one … has he imagined the other?

The padding is getting closer now and he has little time. He shakes his head as he leans forward, allowing his hair to fall over his eyes, quickly he splits the ball of gruel into two, closes his eyes and spreads the mix over each eyelid, trying as best he can to coat them evenly, he wonders if it will stick, will it fall off or will his guard notice something odd and pre-empt him?

And will he get the timing right, too soon and he'll be blinded by the flashlight, too long and his guard might suspect … only his hearing can help him now, and he has had plenty of practice in refining that sense.

He stands still head bowed but not too much, he must appear as normal as usual … he strains his ears, hears the footfalls come to a stop, guesses he'll be held in the glare … will he know when … he's surprised he can tell when the flashlight hits his face, either the paste is too thin or the light too strong … but its not blinding, not the searing light hitting over-enlarged pupils accustomed only to darkness, it's more like peeing through dark glass at some far-off light. It fades and he guesses the beam has been turned on the bucket. Opening his eyes he quickly takes in the scene. He can feel bits of grainy paste still sticking to his lids, his lashes, but he can make out his surroundings with ease.

The beam of light shows the bucket on the floor near the wall, he needs to avoid getting hit in the eyes by it, closing one eye and squinting through the other he bends down, head turned slightly away from the glare and picks up the bucket, takes the usual step backwards, tightens his grip on the edge of the plastic and tenses his toes.

The gate swings open, the flashlight points at the fresh bucket just outside the bars, he takes a step forward, eyelids narrowed, makes out the shape of his guard standing, apparently relaxed just outside the opening. Shorty's short, shorten than he's imagined, maybe shoulder height to him, though he's still no more than an outline against the wall, a pale blur of face, dark pools for eyes, a shadow to one side of where the nose must be … it's difficult to distinguish features. He takes the second step, turning his body sideways, slightly away from him, balancing his weight on his forward foot, the bucket swinging back slightly, he begins to bend as his arm and bucket swing forward, reaches the bottom of the ark of rotation, and then his putting every ounce of strength into the sweeping upward curve, releasing the bucket at about waist height and continuing upwards, fist clenching, teeth clamped in anticipation, body moving forward.

His fist connects, he's not sure where, somewhere soft, maybe under the jaw, near the throat, slightly higher than he'd been aiming for. He'd gone for the killing blow, the crushed larynx, the silent, gasping gate to death … but he's hit a bit too high, the blow knocking Shorty back into the wall behind him, bouncing him forwards again and he knows he has to finish it now, quickly … he doesn't have the stamina to go ten rounds with a feather, let alone someone possibly trained in unarmed combat.

With gritted teeth and rasping breath he drops his shoulder, rams forward into the guard, smashes him back hard against the wall, hears the grunt of exhaled air, hears the snap of ribs, probably more than one. Shorty's in trouble now, stunned by the first blow, damaged by the second, but he can't stop now, he needs to finish this before he himself collapses from exhaustion. He grabs at the jacket, feels the guard slipping down the wall and he follows him down, falls on top of him, probably adds to the damage already done. The guard's hands are flapping weakly at him trying to push him away. He finds his shoulder, pulls and pushes and manages to turn him over onto his front, gets his arm under his throat, adjusts his hold till Shorty's neck is in the v of his arm and starts applying pressure.

He leans back, pushing himself away from the guard, scrabbling back along the wall as if that will make things better, his breath is coming in short, agonised gasps, he feels exhausted, is unaware of the pitiful cries he's emitting on each exhalation. He drops his head into his hands, feels the tears wetting his cheeks, doesn't know if they are tears of grief or tears of relief …

He doesn't know how long has passed, a few minutes? A few hours? He gradually becomes aware of his surroundings, the shape stretched out along the passage floor a few feet away, the glint of red from the darkened corner of the cell. He pushes himself off the wall onto all fours and crawls across to the fresh bucket which somehow, miraculously has remained undisturbed. His hands find the mug and he drops back onto the floor, leans his spine against one of the bars of his cell and gulps at the water, almost choking in his haste. He forces himself to take a steadying breath, a second one.

This time the water runs down his throat without choking him, he feels the soothing coolness begin to invade his every pore, takes a second swallow, then a third. He drops the now empty mug, the lonely clatter bouncing down the passageway. He really should start moving, but he's still feeling too shocked, too exhausted.

He pulls the dish out from inside the bucket, suddenly feeling ravenous. He pushes the first mouthful in, chews and finds himself swallowing it before he's even counted five. It takes him no more than a few minutes to clean the dish, licking every last scrap he can find.

He pushes himself to his feet, almost having to use the metal bar of the cell like a rope to heave himself up. His legs are shaking, fatigue, shock, adrenaline slowly dissolving from his bloodstream, leaving behind exhausted muscles.

He makes his way hesitatingly over to the still figure on the floor, stares down, attempting to discern the slightest movement … nothing, not that he was really expecting it, hoping? maybe, expecting? no.

Taking hold of the trouser legs he drags him into the cell, let's go his legs and stands still a moment. He doesn't really want to turn him over, but he needs to search him for whatever he has. He begins by pulling the jacket off the guard and setting it to one side.

Then, reluctantly, he kneels down and turns him over onto his back, all the time keeping his face turned from Shorty's. A quick pat down and he's pulling items from a shirt pocket, a few more items from one of the trouser pockets … he's not sure but he thinks they might be combat fatigues from the number of pockets he's finding, mostly empty.

He pauses, looking around as he holds the liberated items to his chest. Standing he heads over to clean bucket and drops them inside. Picking up the jacket from off the floor he goes through it, finds the set of keys which he assumes will open and close the cell gate and passageway door. There's a gun in the other pocket, automatic, compact but heavy, some chewing gum; the scent of mint overpowering to his senses, almost making him feel sick. He adds the haul to the bucket, hanging on only to the keys.

He tries to slip the jacket on, it only slides so far up his arm before getting stuck … too small. With a shrug he drops it on the floor, then looking round, picks it up again and drapes it over Shorty, covering him as best he can. He looks at the red glint of eyes in the corner and shrugs. It won't help much he thinks as he turns away, pulls the gate closed behind him and on the third attempt finds the right key to lock it. Bending down to pick up the bucket containing his haul … he checks just to make sure it's not the one full of piss and shit, unable to help the grin touch his lips at the thought, he straightens up and cautiously makes his way along the passage.


	4. Chapter 4

**WITH THE WIND IN OUR FACE – Chapter 4**

It's is a heavy metal bulkhead door set into a thick metal frame, like those found in ships and submarines, designed to withstand massive pressures. He's never heard of ships being lined with stone, nor has his cell moved or rocked to waves or currents during all this time. The whole setup is beginning to feel military to him, maybe paramilitary, because it doesn't make sense however you look at it.

Placing his bucket on the floor, he cautiously turns the wheel, hears the internal mechanism sliding to release the locking pins from the frame, hears them clunk metallically into the withdrawn position, the noise he's been so accustomed to hearing yet which sounds so differently close up. He gives a gentle tug, nothing, a harder one, still nothing, it remains totally immovable. He tries pushing instead, almost falls over the combing as the door swings open on well-oiled hinges.

He staggers back a step, kicking the bucket and sending it rolling against the wall as his eyes narrow to slits when the red glare hits his eyes. He moves sideways a few steps back down the passageway which is now bathed in red around the open doorway. He crouches, what if they are waiting for him out there, weapons aimed, laughing at him as he … he takes a deep breath. Again this is crazy. Red lights are used in ships and submarines to help preserve or induce night vision, helping to attune the eye between darkness and light. But why go to all the trouble, a simple pair of night vision goggles and his captors wouldn't need … unless everything was already in place. Walk into the 'red room', wait a few minutes for the eyes to adjust to the low intensity red light, step into the passageway and night vision would be adequate, he knows this because … yeah, well that was a long time ago.

His eyes are no longer slits, the adaptation has loosened the muscles around his eyes, he can feel them relaxing as they become accustomed to the red glow. Taking a cautious step forward he peers round the edge of the doorway. The room beyond is small, in fact just an extension of the passageway. There's a heavy-duty wire mesh cage covering the red bulb in the ceiling. Some six feet away, a further steel bulkhead and closed door block the way, this one with a glass inset near the top, about six inches in diameter … beyond that he can see nothing, just a white glare.

He eases himself into the space, looks around. The only other item of interest is a metal shelf fixed to the side, screwed into the stonework. He takes a step towards it and checks the items. Three flashlights … he already has the one he's taken from Shorty, but a spare might come in handy even if just for the batteries. There are also two keys, each on its own wire ring and looking very similar. Spares for the cell? He hadn't investigated further down the passage, has never seen the guard go beyond his cage, he'd assumed there was nothing down there … not to mention his need to get out of there.

Glancing at the bulkhead leading to the unknown, he hesitates, the need to escape conflicting with his innate caution and curiosity. He makes up his mind, grabs both keys and steps back into the passage. Seeing the bucket, he bends down, picks it up and starts replacing the scattered contents, easy to spot in the red glow from the outer room. He debates whether to leave it or take it with him …. The thought that he might find more useful items deciding him.

Turning on the flashlight, he instinctively squints as the bright beam lights up the passage way before him. Only now does he realise that what he's taken to be stone is in fact concrete … old concrete, worn and stained and rough. Concrete blocks with the scars of neglect, streaks of slimy green and rusty brown, pitted surfaces and chipped edges. Wherever it is he finds himself, it's certainly no state-of-the-art confinement centre.

Cautiously he heads down the passageway he's only recently fled from, purposefully keeps the beam of light away from his cell, ignores the chirping and shuffling from within, continues further down. He comes to a second set of bars, carefully swings the flashlight to illuminate the interior. It's the first time he sees it bathed in light, looking so familiar that if he didn't know better he'd assume it was his own cell.

It's a small bleak place, about six feet wide by five deep, a recess about a foot wide in the back wall around shoulder height, the twin to his own alter. Other than that, nothing, the place is bare, streaked and tired concrete blocks imprisoned behind metal bars. Turning he continues down the length of the passage, a further three cells, just as empty and bare as the last one.

Turning, he heads back up towards the distant glow of red, only now aware of the slight curvature in the passageway, the glow becoming wider the closer he gets. Turning off the flashlight he approaches the opening with care, still expecting to find Shorty's companions waiting for him.

The red room's still empty, just as he'd left it. He looks at the keys in his hand, hadn't even bothered testing them ... an oversight, now he still doesn't know if they belong to the cells he's just visited or not … logic dictates they do, why otherwise would they be here, in this room? Erring on the side of caution, he places them in the bucket and steps towards the second door.

Carefully he eases his head sideways, peering through the glass inset. He squeezes his eyes closed, feels the pain from the glare beyond and flops back against the wall. He's caught a glimpse of the area beyond before he'd had to close his eyes, a glimpse which allowed him to see a short length of passage with a sharp right-hand turn. The bright glare from the ceiling had hurt his eyes, probably a normal light set similarly to the red bulb above him. Out there, it looked like 'normal', not the normal of the last weeks or months or however long he's been held here, but normal as in his life previous to that.

He sets the bucket down and considers. His eyes are too unaccustomed to the light out there. He'll be going out blind if he tries it right now, unable to see where he's going or what awaits him. He needs time for his eyes to adapt and he hasn't got a clue how long that will take, minutes, hours? The longer he stays here, the higher the risk of discovery. Shorty's friends must already be missing him, wondering where he is, why he's taking so long.

His options are limited, he can make a move out of here, be blinded by the light and walk into a trap or a hole in the ground which could be just as deadly, he can remain in this room, allowing his eyes to adapt slowly to the increase in light or he can head back down the passageway, maybe hide in the last cell, hope that when they come in search of Shorty they'll assume it's the him lying on the ground in the cell and that Shorty's done a bunk. He's not keen on any of them, feeling like a rat trapped in a maze with all the routes leading to a painful end.

The thought of heading back into the dark, to share space with those repulsive creatures, with their incessant chatter and scratching … it makes him shiver in aversion. No he'll take the middle option, stay here, keep an eye on the passage outside and if he sees or hears approaching footsteps, then he'll make his decision whether to stay and fight or flee into the darkness.

He remembers the gun he's taken from Shorty, peers into the bucket and pulls it out, looking it over now that he can see, the red light giving it a sinister look. Its unfamiliar, of polished steel, looking much like the old army Colt-Browning, the striated grips with a star inset in the centre, turning it he notices the stamped serial number the … _what the hell … Chinese characters_? With a shake of his head he releases the magazine, checks the load, pushes down to test the spring tension, checks the chamber before replacing the magazine. He pulls back on the slider, sets the safety and slides it into the waistband at his back, silently hoping the damned thing is actually safe or else he's going to shoot his own ass off.

He moves around till he's opposite the locked door, aware he's yet to see if he can open it, unwilling to face the possibility of it being locked from outside. He turns to face the glass inset from the opposite doorway, allowing his head to fall back and stares directly at the red glow of the bulb. He makes a slow count to one hundred and then drops his head so that he's now looking right at the glass inset in the door before him. He takes a step forward, stares and counts, feels the watering of his eyes as they try to adapt, wipes the tears away, does another count.

He's not sure how long he's been there, standing with his face to the glass, the concrete passageway beyond bathed in the cold white glare of the recessed ceiling light. The pain has faded, a slight discomfort each time his eyes flick up to the light, nothing more … no sounds, no moving shadows, nothing.

Taking a deep breath, he sets his hands on the wheel, hesitates … then applies pressure. The wheel turns easily, locking pins clunk open and this time he remembers to push rather than pull. As before, the door swings open on silent hinges, his little section of hell suddenly flooded by white light from outside, he blinks instinctively slits his eyes, feels discomfort, nothing more. Opening them wide he peers forward, strains his ears … nothing.

Taking a step over the ledge, he places a foot on the concrete floor beyond, notes the pattern of footprints in the dust and particles of grit that cover the passageway. Notes also, for the first time that he's wearing what look like cheap canvas boating shoes, covered in grime and looking filthy … his trousers look no better now that he comes to look at himself, frayed edges, torn knee, thick grime making them feel stiff … he gives a mental shrug, right now his fashion choice is not important.

He heads towards the bend in the passageway, each step raising a small cloud of dust, each step followed by a pause as he listens for tell-tale sounds. Reaching the end he peers round the corner. Twenty feet away the passage opens out into a large room, old looking tables and chairs scattered around the place, whist in the centre he can make out a glass-enclosed area, a modern desk, what looks like a computer screen …

He swallows, drops into a slight crouch and eases his way round the corner, keeping close to the wall as he inches his way forward, constantly flicking his eyes between the room before him and the next spot he's going to place his feet.

As he approaches the opening, his angle of view increases, showing him more and more of the room ahead. It's not really a room, more a chamber, high domed ceiling, curving walls, streaked concrete everywhere. His eyes flicker back and forth, keep straying to the strange glass cabin set on a raised platform in the centre. The walls are slightly opaque to about thigh height, blurring the shapes behind it. Above that, the glass is clear and he can make out some high-tech equipment. Now that his angle of view has increased, he can also make out a number of screens against the back wall of the cabin, metal cabinets on the far side. It looks like a twenty-first century island dropped into a nineteenth century film set.

For the first time he can hear noise, a steady dripping sound somewhere off to his right and he can't help licking his lips. He reaches the opening and crouches, pausing before pushing his head forwards till he can take in the whole chamber.

There's no one in sight, no sound other than the drip, drip, drip which adds to the sense of desertion. He can make out a further two passageways leading off the chamber, one to his right from where the dripping sound is coming from, the other almost opposite his present position, partially hidden by the glass room in the centre.

The chamber's is about sixty feet across and almost twenty high at the peak of the domed ceiling. Running around the base is a raised platform with steps every so often leading down onto the floor below. The scattered tables and chairs look rusty, covered in worn and tired-looking dark green paint. About halfway up the walls a metal walkway runs around the perimeter, he can make out a rusty-looking ladder off to his left, leading up to it.

Expecting the crash of a shot any moment, he pulls the gun from the small of his back, eases his way onto the platform, and keeping as close to the wall as possible inches his way towards the dripping sound which gets louder as he approaches.


	5. Chapter 5

**WITH THE WIND IN OUR FACE – Chapter 5**

Edging round the corner he finds himself at the entrance to an L-shaped bathroom complex. Ahead of him are a row of six sinks below fly-blown and cracked mirrors, the last sink containing a stack of dirty plates and pots and pans, a cockroach runs down the handle of one, disappears. Next to the row of sinks he can make out number of open-fronted shower stalls, cream coloured tiles cracked and streaked with rust from the shower heads and taps, the sound of dripping water louder now, a sort of double clip-clop of sound which has him licking his lips in anticipation.

Holding the gun out in front of him, finger resting lightly along the trigger guard he edges sideways till he can make out the rest of the area. He counts six shower stalls in all, though he can't see into the end ones. Lining the wall opposite the showers are a series of cubicles with half-doors across their fronts, the latrines he assumes. Dropping slowly to the ground he looks through the gaps under the doors, he can make out the first three toilets, no legs or trousers visible, then the angle narrows too much and like with the showers he can't see the end ones.

He makes his way into the third shower stall, using the side walls as cover and drops to check the final three latrines. Unless someone's crouched up on the toilet seat, they're empty. Moving across, putting his back to the latrines he edges his way along checking each of the shower stalls … all empty, the dripping water coming from the fourth stall along, which is the only one that otherwise shows occupation. A bar of dirty yellow soap sits on top of the taps, a piece of cloth hanging over the rusty shower head and what looks like a bottle of shampoo or gel sits on the floor in the corner.

He looks around, frowning. Only one occupant? Has there only ever been Shorty? It can't be. His mind wonders to the pleasure of a shower, the soap and bottle on the floor almost irresistible, but shakes his head, still too much to find out before he can allow himself to relax, but … he listens for a moment, then moves under the dripping shower head and turns his face up. The first splash lands on his cheek, splashing into his eye and making him blink, the next one lands in his mouth. He stands there for several minutes, allowing the water to build in his mouth before swallowing, to trickle down his chin, and down his neck, an unmitigated pleasure he'd never even considered before. He's not had enough, not really, but he's killed the dripping sound by standing under it and he still doesn't know what he faces. Stepping out of the shower, the last drip landing on the back of his neck, he makes his way out of the washroom in a half crouch, the drip-drip resuming behind him, almost comforting in its regularity.

Reaching the chamber again he looks over to the third entrance, then back at the glass enclosed area. He's indecisive, the glass room looks to be empty, but also looks to offer answers, the passageway ahead leads to the unknown, perhaps to other people, perhaps to danger or salvation.

He opts for the glass room. Easing his foot onto each concrete step down, he keeps his eyes moving around the chamber, brain trying to filter out the now familiar sound of dripping water, ears attuned to other noises. Reaching the floor of the chamber he heads as quietly as possible to the metal steps leading up to the raised floor of the room. He wonders if they'll creak, they look new, perforated steel sections bolted together and leading to a short platform at what must be a glass door.

He almost jumps out of his skin when on reaching the platform, the glass partition before him slides open to a hiss of air. He takes a step inside, spins around when with another hiss the door closes behind him. He swallows, waits a moment for the trip-hammer in his throat and the jumping heart in his chest to settle down to manageable levels. All at once he becomes aware of noise; the quiet hiss of compressed air, the gentle electronic clicking and beeping of machinery, the thumping of his heartbeat in his ears.

The room, if it could be called such, is about sixteen feet square. Metal cabinets and drawers line the wall before him to about waist height, above that, the glass wall allows him a clear view of the unexplored passageway until it makes a left-hand turn, mirroring as far as he can tell the one he entered the chamber from. To his left is a steel table with shelves underneath. The shelves are stacked with unmarked cardboard boxes except for an empty area about three feet at one end. The table itself has a calor gas cooker at one end and a dozen bits and pieces scattered on the surface, including a few dishes and mugs with which he is now quite familiar, bits and pieces of some machinery, tools and one of the cardboard boxes, opened, showing the tops of tins and jars which might be food he thinks. His stomach grumbles in protest but he ignores it for the moment. Turning his head to his left he can see a couple of trestle beds, both unmade, and he's quietly dropping to his knees, peering out towards the chamber.

Damn! He knew Shorty wasn't on his own, but where the hell is his companion? Still nothing stirs, still the only sounds he can hear are the quiet hiss of air, the electronic click, click, beep … even the dripping shower is muted by the glass. Unless there is a secret entrance somewhere, the missing guard can only be somewhere in the other passage. Raising his head he looks over the top of the cabinets … still empty as far as his sight can reach. He turns his attention to the remaining area of the room. He's crouched next to a desk, the back of a computer screen facing him … but what draws his attention is the bank of six screens on the wall behind the desk, set out in two rows of three.

Eyes widening in surprise he stands up, forgetting all about the missing guard and moves round the desk till he's standing before the screens. Two of the upper row screens are turned off, staring back blankly at him. The middle shows the chamber he's currently in … in fact he can make himself out through the glass top of the room, standing stock still. Slowly he moves an arm watches his action reproduced on the screen before him. He raises his head, eyes flicking up to the top of the dome. Light doesn't reach that far up, even so, he thinks he can make out the CCTV camera up there, even if he can't, it doesn't really matter, now he knows there is one there.

He drops his eyes to the lower row of screens. It takes him a moment to realise what he's looking at, they are infrared scenes, the grey, monochrome images similar to those he's watched innumerable times in nature programs showing the nocturnal habits of animals … except that the bottom right-hand screen is somehow familiar. The camera must be high up on the ceiling somewhere, hidden where it can't be seen, he can make out the shape on the floor, upper part covered with a jacket, the camera showing the jerky movements beneath the cloth ... it makes him feel sick.

He turns his eye to the middle screen and his breathing stops. Like the previous screen it shows a cell … but this one has a figure huddled in a corner. The figure's rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around its knees, head on its arms, the hair hiding any chance of identification. He watches for several moments, waiting to see if it moves, see who it is … another prisoner obviously, but who?

He turns to the final screen, it must be an outside view he concludes. He can make out the bright points of what look like stars in a V-shaped section of night sky. From the flattened area of ground at the bottom, rocks and plants climb away on either side. It has to be the front door. The way in … and the way out!

He reaches up and switches on the two blank screens, maybe they'll show him where the missing guard is …. they flicker, but remain obstinately blank. He turns them back off.

He moves round the desk to the table, looking out through the glass wall at the unexplored entrance, it has to be where the other prisoner is being held … but what else will he find there? He glances down at the table picks up one of the cans … the writing on the label is Asian ... not Japanese, he's pretty sure though not positive, Chinese perhaps, Korean? He shrugs, right now that's the least of his worries. Next he pulls a jar out of the opened cardboard box and his eyes light up. Peaches! It's a struggle to open the top, he's almost resorting to breaking the jar when the top pops and comes loose in his hand. He tips the jar up to his mouth feels the rich sweet juice filling his mouth, rolling down his throat, the pieces of peach coming to rest against his nose and upper lip, the scent almost overpowering. Then he's trying to tip the pieces of fruit into his mouth, biting into deliciousness he barely remembers, bits of fruit drop to the floor as he chews into the chunks, but he ignores them. He's finished the jar and drops it on the table, quickly rifles through the box until he comes across a tin of sweetcorn … this one has an American label and an lid's a ring tab. He pulls the lid off drops it on the table next to the jar and walks back to the screens.

He watches the other prisoner, carefully tipping the corn into his mouth, remembering this time to chew each mouthful before swallowing. The prisoner hasn't altered his position, still sits there gently rocking back and forth, head bowed.

He drops his eyes, looks at the now empty tin in his hands and turns to sweep an eye over the room again. The computer on the desk is off, he'll need to take a look at it at some point, but right now he's more interested in the cupboards and drawers over the other side of the room … he also needs to do something about the prisoner, but he's reluctant to lose his sudden found comfort.

He steps over to the row of cabinets and pulls on the first handle, nothing, its locked. He pulls and rattles each of the other doors and units only to find them all locked. He remembers the keys he'd removed from Shorty's corpse, they're back in the bucket in the red room. He glances up at the screens, lets his eyes skip over the image of his old cell, watches himself from above as he stands still, looks back at the rocking prisoner, watches, waits, pushes the hair out of his eyes. He turns to look out at the passage he'd come from, then back to the one yet to be investigated, looks across at the two unmade beds. He makes his decision.


	6. Chapter 6

**WITH THE WIND IN OUR FACE – Chapter 6**

He eases round the first corner and stops. Ahead of him, he can see the same type of blast door he came through from his own cell block, unfortunately, unlike his own passageway there appears to be a second blast door in the left hand side of the passageway, halfway along. He crouches and considers, one of them must lead to the outside the other to the cells.

Assuming the layout is more or less a mirror of the wing he's been held in, he decides to ignore the side-door and heads for the bulkhead at the end of the passageway. He peers quickly through the glass recess, notes the red light isn't on in the next room … in fact he can't make anything out in there at all. He tries shining the flashlight through, but the thick glass just bounces the light back at him, momentarily blinding him.

Deciding there's only one way to find out, he slips the gun into the back of his pants and turns the wheel before pulling the door open. The sudden, putrid stench that accompanies the opening of the door makes him reel backwards gaging as he feels his stomach rebelling. He takes some deep breaths, wonders if maybe his own incarceration smells as bad. He doesn't think so, he's sure he stinks, must be pretty ripe after all this time without washing … but this is different.

He's taken a couple of steps back and even here he can smell it … in fact, now that the initial shock has worn off, he even recognises the stench. He returns to the central chamber, goes around the raised platform and re-enters the washroom. Walking into the fourth stall, he reaches up and pulls the piece of cloth off the showerhead; it looks like a piece of faded t-shirt. Grabbing the soap from off the top of the taps he goes back to the sinks and experimentally turns one of the taps. There's a gurgling of trapped air before murky, brown water spurts and splutters into the sink, splashing him, then it stops, gurgles once more before a stream of water begins to flow. There's an occasional spurt and gush of trapped air, but soon the water's running fairly clear into the sink. Wetting the cloth he rubs the soap over it till it's built up a fairly thick layer, then he's folding it into a bandana. He thinks about taking a drink of water, but decides against it for the moment, he doesn't know if it's what he's been drinking all along or not, but the last thing he needs right now is a dose of the shits. With a mental shrug he picks the bandana up off the edge of the sink and lays it over his nose and ties it behind his head.

Turning off the tap he checks in the flyblown mirror before him that no one's about to pounce him from behind, then turns and makes his way back to the red room where he's left the bucket and its contents. Carrying it back, he sets it down by the entrance of last passageway, pulls out the various bunches of keys and slips them into his trouser pocket before picking out one of the flashlights. Checking that it works, he steps forward, hesitates slightly as he reaches the bend and then, with a deep breath he steps round and heads to the darkness behind the now open door.

Stepping into the room he swings the light round and almost bolts. Only the fact that he's going to have to go through here anyway keeps him from stepping out and slamming the door closed behind him. Lying in the corner, partially propped against the wall is, he assumes, the second guard. He's seen enough gunshot wounds to recognise what's blown half his face away. That isn't the worst of it though. The flashlight has caught the scurrying shapes that have been eating away at thighs, and hands and cheeks, the torn flesh and teeth marks clear in the cold light of the torch. However, what almost makes him throw up is the heaving mass where his stomach and intestines should have been … blood-soaked shapes were moving within the cavity below his chest, red eyes staring angrily at the disruption.

He suddenly aims the gun and fires repeatedly into their midst, the commotion even worse as the shots thunder round the confined space and blood red creatures flee in panic, jumping in all directions, some making it over the sill and racing down the passageway, others desperately attempting to climb the walls, others jumping straight at him. He takes a step back, kicking out and instinctively screaming at them. Then there's silence. Every one of them seemingly melting away into the shadows and he's letting himself lean back against the wall, panting, worried that the shots will bring the enemy rushing in … he lost count of the shots he's fired, doesn't know how many rounds he has left. He's no longer even conscious of the stench of putrid flesh, he's desperately listening for the sound of running footsteps, yells and shouts … nothing … silence.

He'd dropped the torch in panic when the commotion started, its laying there, lighting up the left side of the corpse and reaching into the far corner of the room, a pale wash of light showing him the next door in the sequence. Taking a couple of steadying breaths, the soap-soaked bandana doing little to kill the smell, he bends down, retrieves the flashlight and swings it around the room. There's some scurrying in the distance, but he notes two things, one the shelf in this room is bare, nothing on it, two, the door on the far side is partially open … explains where they'd fled to.

Pulling the door fully open, he steps over the combing and flashes the light down the length of the passageway. There's a further sound of scrabbling bodies disappearing into the gloom beyond the reach of the light … there's also another sound, almost a whimper followed by a louder scuffling sound. He's about to move forwards, flash light held up beside the barrel of the gun when he remembers his own reaction to the glare of the flashlight.

Pulling the bandana from round his face, his nose wrinkling at the still fetid stench, now further mixed with a recognisable smell of incarceration, he folds the cloth across the front of the flashlight and the passageway is suddenly bathed in a mellow light. Pointing the torch downwards, he adjusts the angle until it lights the wall to his side at about waist height, leaving the upper part in gloom. Moving slowly he heads along the passageway till the first of the bars show up in the light.

He's having difficulty in seeing into the gloom beyond, his eyes, now accustomed to light, are finding it more difficult to adjust back to the darkness. A shuffling noise further along makes him tip the flashlight slightly, the glow from the torch reaching further into the space behind the bars, and then he can see the figure, trying to push itself back against the wall, scrabbling to get away from the light. He stops, doesn't move the light any further, the light reaching up to just below the prisoner's knees, the rest of him hidden in the gloom.

He swallows, suddenly at a loss for words, then he gives himself a mental shake and manages "_Hey, I'm not the enemy, I'm a friend_".

His voice sounds rusty to him, lack of use has almost made it a stranger to him, and it must sound worse than he thinks, because the other guy's whimpering, it sounds like a repeatedly whispered _No, no, no_.

He tries again, "_I'm a friend, my name's Richard Castle, I've been a priso_ …" but he's interrupted by a gasp and the slow hesitant shuffling as the figure slowly approaches.

He daren't bring the flashlight up but he tries again, "_I managed to escape, but I don't know where_ …"

And this time, when he's interrupted it's the last thing he expects "_Rick? … Rick, is that really you?_"

"_Kate!_" He can't help but tip the flashlight up and suddenly she's throwing up her arms to shield herself. With a silent curse he points it downwards again, whispering a steady stream of _sorries_ and pushing his arm through the bars to take hold of her. He must be going crazy he thinks, he's still not been able to get a look at her, but there's no doubting that voice, the way she'd said his name, and suddenly she's holding onto his hand and sobbing and laughing and saying his name over and over again.

He doesn't know how long it is before he realises that there's still the bars between them, and suddenly he pulling back, telling her it'll be ok as she tries to cling to him, whispering he's going to get her out of there and then he's passing the flashlight through to her, explaining about having to hold the bandana across it, telling her to aim the light at the lock as he fumbles in his pocket for the keys. He growls in frustration as first one and then another key fails to fit the lock … and then the third one's turning and the tumbles line up and he's pushing the gate open and then she's in his arms and their clinging to each other crying and saying stupid nothings.

He leads her gently towards the exit and then remembers in time about the lighting outside. He stops her, explains about the lack of red light in the next room, that even if there were, they'd have to share the space with a rotting corpse, so he removes the bandana from where it's slipped down round his neck and ties it round her eyes like a blindfold.

He's careful leading her out into the outer room and as she wrinkles her nose under the bandana, she asks who it is. He explains it's one of the guards … or assumes so at any rate, before guiding her over the combing and out into the passageway. He checks they're still alone, hears her hiss as obviously the light hurts her, she's probably tried to take a peek he thinks and then he's setting her hands against the wall, telling her to wait a second.

Turning back he swings the door closed, spins the wheel and hears the locking pins drop into place. Turning back he takes a second to observe her. She looks like skin and bone, though it's difficult to tell with all the dirt and mussed up hair and blindfold, but there's no mistaking the tough cop he's got to know so well over the last years.

Taking a step towards her he places his arm around her waist and guides her along and into the chamber. She hears the dripping water even as they enter and he has a job to stop her heading straight in for a shower.

He leads her round and into his wing as he's come to think of it, into the red room and eases her down onto the floor. He explains about the light, tells her to keep her eyes closed and removes the bandana from around her eyes.

"_Right Kate, keep your eyes closed until I shut the outer door, I'll be gone a few minutes only, I'm going to get you some food and liquid, then we'll sit here and talk until your eyes adjust, ok?_"

She doesn't really want him to go, feels the panic rising but fights it down, nods and whispers "_Ok_"

It actually takes him about five minutes to get back, he's had to open several boxes before he's found another jar of peaches and a couple of pull ring cans, he'd had a quick look for a can opener but hadn't found it. What he had found on pulling one of the boxes out had been a six-pack of small bottled water. Returning with his finds he calls out to her before swinging the door open and then closed behind him. Dropping to the floor next to her he puts his arm around her shoulder and chuckles.

"_What?_" she asks.

"_We must look an absolute mess_ …" he grins "… _and I wouldn't want to be in the same room as us either!_"


	7. Chapter 7

**WITH THE WIND IN OUR FACE – Chapter 7**

As they sit in the Red Room, Kate ravenously eating the peaches and turning her nose up at the tin of palmetto shoots. He begins to tell her about his escape, but she interrupts him "_Rick, later, what I need to know is what happened that day?_"

"_I'm sorry Kate, of all the days I really should_ …" but she interrupts him.

"_It's ok Rick, you're alive and we're together, that's all that matters. But I need to know what happened to you back there … when I saw the car … I couldn't take it Rick … I just couldn't!_"

He sets the water bottle down and pulls her onto his lap, feeling her scoot her legs across and pull herself into him like she was trying to meld them together as one, dirt and grime and staleness no barrier to their need for each other.

"_After I hung up , I noticed a black Escalade coming up behind me … normally I'd not have worried, but since meeting you_ …" he trails off and has to grin as she thumps him gently on the chest, both in protest and agreement, _"… anyway, I sped up, they did too, I slowed down, so did they. Then suddenly they pulled up alongside and shot ahead. Before I could react they'd pulled across the front of me and I had to slam on the brakes … by the time I'd come to a stop, they were out the vehicle and pointing some nasty looking assault rifles at me. I wasn't about to argue_".

"_They had me out of the car, hood over my head and into the back of the Escalade before I could even say 'hey!' … then I felt a jab in my neck and when I came to, I was sitting … well, laying in my dark hole and cursing them for ruining my wedding day. What about you Kate, how the hell did they get you?_"

He can feel her shaking her head where it rests against his shoulder. "_When I saw the wreck _…"

"_What wreck?_" he interrupts

"_Your car, it was in the ditch and on fire …_"

"_Damn! I liked that merc_"

She lifts her head off his shoulder and turns to look at him, the Beckett glare not quite full power, but enough to tell him to shut up now. He offers a somewhat apologetic look and she glares at him a little longer before settling back against him.

Very purposefully, and with an occasional pause just to make sure he's not going to interrupt her, she starts again. "_When I saw the wreck … I died, inside. I couldn't take any more. Your Mom, Alexis, Dad, they must have dealt with everything, gone back and told everyone what had happened …I don't know, all I know is that when I did made it back to the house … and don't ask me how … only the family and Ryan and Jenny were there. Lanie and Espo had gone with the local cops to … I suppose to keep an eye on things," _she shrugs helplessly_ "I just made it upstairs and crawled into a corner of our room and … well, that was where you're mother found me … hours later"._

Kate lifts her head off his shoulder and looks at him_ "I've never known anyone as strong as her Caste, she's ... she's incredible!" _

_"__What happened?" _he asks gently, brushing some of the matted hair off her face, the red light casting a strange glow over her.

"_She told me that the body found in the car had been taken to the local morgue, that Lanie had been unable to identify it as you from visuals and prelims, but that she had a feeling it wasn't you. They were running DNA test but that the results wouldn't be in till the following day, even though the lab was making it a priority case, and that Lanie was staying on at the lab overnight and would call us as soon as anything came up_".

"_Then she mentioned the earrings_ …"

"_What earrings?_" he asks, puzzled.

"_When I was getting ready, just before you and I spoke on the phone ... she handed me a box, said it was as a thank you for making you so happy … they were a pair of sapphire drop earrings … beautiful ones_…"

"_My grandmother's_" he nods, surprised, given what they meant to Martha and yet not surprised at all, knowing how she regarded … regards Kate.

Kate nods, "_We were both sitting on the floor, I was trying to pull myself together and not succeeding very well, still wearing the dress and the earrings … then she asked me if I remembered what she'd said about them_"

"_And, what had she said?_" he asks curiously

"_That only women of substance had worn them … and the implications were pretty obvious, she expected me to get off my ass and find out what had happened to you!_" and there's a muffled huff from somewhere around his chest, a mix of laughter and sob.

"_What happened then?_"

"_I did just that. Got changed and went downstairs, started making calls, it was a pretty lousy evening for all of us, Jenny and Ryan put all the presents away 'for when you were back' they said … that almost set me off again. Alexis has obviously inherited your Mother's strength, she dealt with the caterers, arranged with them to have the food delivered to the hospital and local hospices ... we had to take the phone off the hook in the end and turn all our mobiles off, it was just too much, I don't know how the press got all our numbers, but it just became crazy, the local uniforms kept them away from the house. Luckily I remembered the burner phone you told me about, so I used it to call Espo and Lanie, told them to use it if anything came up_".

"_Next day we went back to New York. Gates obviously wasn't hanging around, by the time I got into the precinct, Hills and Ramirez were already working on it, it … it wasn't the first time I'd seen your picture up on the board …. Hell Rick, I nearly fell apart right then_".

He waits for her to continue, arms tight around each other. After a deep breath she carries on. "_The captain had me in her office most of the time, I'm sure she wanted to throw me out, but she let me sit there, kept me up to date on what was happening, wouldn't let me out of there though, said it was either sit there or go home, that right then I was of no help, that maybe the following day, when they might have something to go on … and that she'd let me know if anything popped_".

"_I think she must have called your Mother, both she and Alexis appeared and made me go back with them_", Castle raises his eyebrows; she must have been out of it to allow herself to be dragged away from there!

Kate picks up the last of the water bottles; they've already emptied the other five between them. He twists the top off for her and she takes it, drinking about half of it before handing it back to him. He screws the top on, sets it on the floor and replaces his arm around her.

"_I took some pills that night, couldn't sleep at all and knew I needed to be fresh if I was to find out what had happened to you. Next morning I was still feeling a bit groggy from the pills, Martha wanted me to stay in for a bit, but I couldn't … I needed to be at the precinct. I went down to the garage … maybe if I hadn't taken those pills _…"

"_What happened?_" he asks gently as her voice peters out.

"_There was a SUV parked a couple of spaces away from my car … I didn't think anything about it … went to open my door, heard someone getting out behind me … then I woke up here … well, down there where you found me in my own hellhole. I screamed at them, asked what they wanted, who they were … nothing, they just left a bucket, food, if you can call it that and water, not a word all this time … until you appeared _…" and she's sitting upright, suddenly frightened, taking his face between her hands and staring hard at him _"... it is you, isn't it Rick? I'm not going crazy?_"

It's a few minutes before she calms down and by then he thinks she's probably ready to try her eyes out with the lighting outside. He gets to his feet, pulls her up to stand next to him and slowly eases the door open, grinning at his caution when doing this the last time, he still doesn't know if there are others out there waiting for them, but with Kate next to him, he's ready to face whatever they want to throw his way.

"_What's so funny?_" she asks as they step out into the passageway, her eyes squinting slightly as she looks up at him, but not really bothered by the bright lights any more, and looking down at her he shakes his head.

"_We both need a shower_" he says, and can't help his laugh at her eye-roll, only to glance up nervously as his laughter echoes through the passageway.

He's no sooner shown her the washing facilities than she's looking each of them over. With a shake of her head she says "_There's no way I'm getting into these rags again after a shower, they need to be burnt!_"

He waggles his eyebrows at her, "_We can always wear out birthday suits _…"

Apparently ignoring him, though he catches the twitch of her lips she asks "_Didn't you come across any clothes when you were searching?_"

He shakes his head, "_Food, beds, computers … and some locked cabinets and drawers. Unless they were locking their clothes away … there's also another doorway, I'm guessing to the outside, but I haven't been through it_".

"_What about the clothes the guards were wearing?_"

"_Uh, well you might fit into Shorty's stuff, the othe_…"

"_Shorty's?_" she interrupts him

He grins, explains about the name and then remembering the view of the twitching jacket on the screen, shudders. "_His jacket might do you, but_ …" he's reluctant to even go back and look. "_As to the other guy … no way, I'd rather put these back on_" he says, pointing at their filthy rags. Then he pauses, thinks about it a moment, "_There has to be something, there were at least those two guys here, but there's no towels, no shaving gear, and apart from the rather utilitarian look of the glass room, there's no sign of a couple of guys making the place liveable … first thing you'd expect to see would be some centrefold up on the wall, cd's, books, magazines … kind of things you see anywhere someone settles in … maybe we need to go check out the other door first_".

Kate looks down at herself, reluctantly at the dripping showerhead and then nods. "_Ok, but you'd better let me have whatever it is sticking out your pants_ …" her innocent look belied by the laughter in her eyes as she adds, "_round the back_", fingers flicking in that direction.

He pulls the gun from his waist band, giving her the pout before handing it over. Glancing at it as he hands it to her, she's puzzled, and feeling his gaze on her looks up. "_It's a Chinese Type 54_" she says, "_what the hell have the Chinese got to do with this?_"

"_Wait till you see the food labels_" he says, and when she looks up at him, he shrugs "_Asian, Mexican, American … but no price tags, so it could come from just about anywhere_"

Having checked the weapon over she nods to him, "_Ok, let's go see what's behind the next door!_"


	8. Chapter 8

**WITH THE WIND IN OUR FACE – Chapter 8**

She stands off to his right, lines the gun up with the door and on her nod, he spins the wheel before taking a step back and pulling it open. Kate moves forward cautiously and he follows her in.

They're standing in a second chamber, smaller than the one containing the glass room and here the floor is all on one level with only two passageways leading off it. A few wire-encased lights placed evenly around the chamber give sufficient illumination to see, though the upper reaches are bathed in gloom. Turning to look around him, Castle points the flashlight up at the wall, some twelve feet off the ground. Faded lettering appears on the concrete; letters outlined in yellow and after staring hard at it he thinks he can make out DELTA, though the L and the T are too faded to be certain.

Following his gaze Kate makes out the lettering and says, "_Looks pretty military to me _…"

He shrugs, continues turning slowly, keeping the flashlight pointed into the upper reaches of the chamber ... there's not much more to be made out, just more time-worn concrete. Turning to his left, he switches the flashlight off and nods at the passageway, "_How about starting with this one?_"

She nods, holds the gun at her side ready for action and they head into the passageway, following the slight curvature which within thirty paces becomes a sudden right-hand turn. They peer round the corner buttress and then take a few steps forward. It's a large room, about thirty feet long by twenty wide, a further opening at the far end. Making the room look bigger that it probably is, are four beds, sturdier that the trestle ones set up in the glass room he notes, the green painted steel angle iron structure making them look very spartan. Two are made up, no creases in the stretched green blankets, the other two are unmade. Next to each bed stands a head-high locker also painted in the ubiquitous green paint, everything looking pretty new.

Castle can picture another twenty or so beds lining each wall, soldiers standing at attention as the sergeant walks betwee … then Kate's moving towards the far opening and he has to trot to catch up with her. The layout here is very similar to the washrooms in the main chamber, though here he can see a couple of wash bags by the sinks, shaving gear set out by one of them, some not-too-clean towels hanging over the edge of another. Kate 'clears' the room … not that they'd expected to find anyone, the silence is almost oppressive.

He moves back into the sleeping quarters and tries the lockers, the doors open to his touch, and he peers inside each one, pulling items out and throwing them onto one of the made-up beds. Kate follows suit with the lockers on the opposite side of the room and soon they're staring at the collection of items scattered across the two beds.

Kate picks up a pair of fatigue pants and holds them up against herself, they're a bit long and the waist a bit wide, but she reckons she can deal easily enough with those issues. The neatly folded t-shirts and camouflage field shirt on its wire hanger look like the real deal, but she's no expert and knows that anyone can purchase army surplus equipment, not to mention all the reproduction stuff out there. There are no id tags, names or insignias on the clothes, not that she'd expected any, but …

"_What do you make of all this, Rick?_" she asks waving her hand around

He shrugs, "_Looks like two on duty, two off, but we don't know when they'll change shifts … if at all_".

"_What do you mean?_"

"_Someone took the second guard out … and that was before I took Shorty down. So who killed the first guard? Shorty, or someone else? Maybe we'll find the other two bodies somewhere in this place, or they might just walk in at any time; the whole setup feels crazy to me. You found anything you can use?_"

She nods and watches as Rick pulls the blanket from under his haul and shows surprise when he hands it to her.

"_Towel _…" he says, "… _don't fancy using those_" nodding in the direction of the towels lying in the sink. He repeats the process with the other blanket and Kate turns to look around the room again before setting the gun down on the top shelf of the locker next to her.

He's pulled some trainers and several pair of boots out of the bottom shelves and checked them for size. One pair is about right. "_Best we make use of the facilities then, there are some things I need to show you before we try getting out of here_".

Rick turns on the hot water tap at one of the sinks and hisses as the ice-cold water sputters out. However, unlike in the other washroom, here the water is not murky nor is there any trapped air in the pipes. He's surprised when after a few minutes, the water begins to turn warm ... not hot, but certainly better than the first icy touch.

Nodding to Kate, they strip, dropping their rags on the floor outside the shower cubicles and with their haul of soap and shampoo they each step into a stall, both aware of how gaunt the other looks, both wanting to wrap the other in caring arms … first though, they need to get clean.

Rick's the first to emerge, and uses one of the blankets to wipe himself dry as best he can, then he heads to one of the sinks and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks like a stand-in for Game of Thrones he thinks, grinning at his reflection. His hair's long, spiking out in all directions after his attempt to dry it with the blanket. His beard is pretty lush, streaked with grey and giving him a definite patriarchal look. He needs to get rid of it before Kate books him into an old people's home. Hunting through the wash bags he finds a couple of new razor heads and is swapping one for the used one on the razor by the sink when he pauses.

Looking back in the mirror he stares at himself again. His eyes are sunken, dark shadows under them, his cheeks are thin, cheekbones more pronounced, the grey-streaked beard and shaggy hair … only his eyes remind him of himself. He looks down at the razor in his hands and then pauses as he catches sight of her from the corner of his eye. He turns his head, sees her standing wrapped in the blanket, hair looking clean again, eyes too large for her face … in fact it reminds him of her appearance when she returned after her shooting; the too thin, too pale Beckett ….

She's watching him, part amusement, part concern and he grins at her, drops the razor and points at himself, "_Reckon anyone would believe I'm Richard Castle?_"

She comes up to him, runs her free hand through his hair in a vain attempt to smooth it down. He slips his arm round her and pulls her in against him, looking down inquiringly. She shakes her head, "_They'd need to know you pretty well … why?_"

"_I'm thinking it might be better I keep this look for the moment_"

She stares up consideringly, then nods. "_At least until we know what we're facing, then this …_" pulling at his beard, "… _is coming off!_"

Turning from him, she bends down near their dropped clothes and nose wrinkling in distaste now that she's clean and can smell them, she roots around.

"_What are you looking for?_" he asks

She turns to him, "_You might fancy going commando Rick, but I think I'd rather try to rescue my pants at least!_"

He pulls a face "_You going to wear those?_"

With an eye roll she points at the sinks behind him, "_Sink, water, soap … ever heard of washing clothes?_"

Only the fact that he's lost so much weight allows him to fit into a mishmash of clothes from the lockers. The camouflage t-shirt is tight across his shoulder, but otherwise not too bad. One of the field shirts is sufficiently loose to fit over that and apart from having to use a webbing belt to keep the fatigue pants up, they're ok for length. A pair of boots completes the getup and as he stands after tying the laces he feels a new rush of confidence …. crazy what clothes can do for your self-esteem he thinks.

Kate's feeling more like a potato sack, most of the clothes too loose on her, her now clean panties still damp around her hips, but she's not complaining. Like Castle, just the fact of clean clothes makes her feel a hundred times better.

She retrieves the gun from the shelf in the locker, automatically checks the magazine and resets the safety catch. "_What now?_"

He points to the sinks. "_Let me just see if there's anything of use there_ …" and he empties both wash bags into a sink, scrimmaging through the contents and slipping selected items into the sturdier of the two bags.

He returns to where Kate's waiting for him, sitting on one of the beds and looking almost asleep. He looks at the bed a moment, his own body yearning for the soft comfort even these army cots would offer, then he squeezes her shoulder and handing her the wash bag, gathers up the couple of t-shirts and fatigues left on the bed.

Watching him she asks "_What are those for?_"

He turns his head and says, "_Not a clue, but right now anything that might be handy is coming with us … I don't want to have to keep coming back_"

She looks at the lockers and grins, "_Want me to grab a couple of those whilst we're at it?_"

He leans over and gives her a quick kiss, "_Smarty-pants_". Then he's straightening up and they head back out to the chamber.

He hesitates a moment as they enter the chamber and he looks at the unexplored door, but the glass room he feels is the core to this mystery and they need to have a good look at it first.

He bends down and grabs the bucket from where he'd left it and leads the way round to the steps leading up to the glass room. The door slides open as they reach the small platform and he leads the way in, turning just in time to catch the look of surprise on her face when she steps into the room.

He dumps everything onto one of the trestle cots and after hesitating a moment she drops the bag alongside. Slowly she turns on her feet taking in the contents of the room, coming to a stop as she spots the monitors.

"_Want something to eat?_" he asks, moving over to the table and rummaging amongst the boxes he's opened earlier on.

"_Shouldn't we be getting out of here?_" she answers pointing to the screens, "_what if someone's watching us?_"

"_That was my first thought_ …" he says, "… _but it must be at least two, three hours since I escaped. I've been expecting alarms and troops_ _storming the place _… _but nothing so far. Either we're supposed to try to escape or re-enforcements are too far away … or alternatively, no one is watching us_".

"_Have you tried the computer?_" she asks pointing to the monitor on the desk. He shakes his head, pulling out a couple of tins and studying them closely.

Waving a hand over to the right he adds, "_Those are all locked, I'm thinking there might be something of interest in there also … aha!_" he exclaims and Kate steps up beside him looking at the tin he's holding in his hand. The label shows a bowl of rice noodles with Asian characters curved over it. Then she's looking at where his thumb is placed. Leaning forward she can make out BEST BEFORE: 21/03/15

"_What's so great about that?_" she asks

"_How many Asian countries have best before in English on their tins? And look at the date format, not too many countries apart from the States use the day, month and year format."_

_"__Did you think we might not be in the states?" _she asks.

"_I'm not sure, at first I thought it was some crazy kidnap thing … but who kidnaps someone and then doesn't use them for their demands? Not to mention that finding you here makes it even more improbable_" turning to face to room and sliding his arm around her shoulders he settles back against the table.

"_Someone trying to keep us out of the way?_"

"_Why bother, we'd have been on our honeymoon and well out of the way within a few hours_" he shakes his head, "_No this is something else … but I just can't think what, its why we need to search this _…" pointing with his chin to the room, "… _and see if we can find any clues, but before that, I'm starving and I think it's time we ate something_", turning back to the opened boxes and pulling out a selection of tins and jars.

Most are normal tins, no easy opening ones, then remembering what he'd pulled from Shorty's pockets he grabs the bucket and roots around for the Swiss Army knife and lighter he'd been carrying.


End file.
